The Castle of Earth and Embers

by Steffanie Holmes

  Dammit. There I was, dreaming about real food and missing all the conversation. The Queen must’ve said something about the High Priestess, because Daigh was talking again.

  “She is within our grasp. My spies overheard the witches’ lawyer gossiping in the village. Apparently the girl has decided to take up her place at Briarwood. She will arrive within the week. I think we should be ready for her, take her as soon as we see a chance. We know that she does not know what she is, and from what my spies have seen of her, she’s a skeptic who will take some time to be convinced. If we act before she fully realizes her powers—”

  The Queen laughed, a tinkling sound like the flow of a river. “We? You keep using this pronoun as though we are somehow in this together. Unlike you, the Seelie are content to remain here in our realm, to make our revels amongst the ancient trees and pristine waters. We do not lust after an old world that has been tainted by the human race with their factories and combustion engines and computer chips.”

  “Are you certain of this? You have been Queen for half a century. Perhaps you should ask your subjects if they wish to roam over mountains and across glades, if they long to stretch their legs beyond the walls of our prison.” Daigh gestured to the row of sprites and brownies lining the wall behind the Queen. Faint whispers rose up as they twittered among themselves.

  “I do not have to ask them,” Queen Morgana simpered, but her eyes flashed with anger. Abruptly, the twittering behind her ceased. “I am the Summer Queen. I speak for the Seelie Court.”

  I folded one hand across my lap, watching my father’s face. He looked as relaxed as ever, but I caught the slightly glint in his crystalline eyes. He was planning something, and the Queen was playing right into his hands.

  “As you say,” Daigh sipped his drink again as if he had no real interest in the suggestion. “I merely point out that now the Briarwood coven are at their weakest. If we combine our forces, we will be able to overpower the spell that keeps us here. My fae have consulted the auguries. We believe this is our time, our chance. And with the girl arriving—”

  “I tire of this conversation.” The Queen waved her hand dismissively. She picked up one of the honey-coated fruits and slid it into her mouth, her tongue flicking around her green-tinged lips. “Your idea is foolish, and I cannot see you giving up the throne of the Unseelie Court for a human girl, especially not an American—”

  Daigh smiled. The Queen didn’t catch the menace in that smile, but I did. As the Queen reached for another fruit, he flicked out his wrist. His bone knife soared across the table, burying itself in the Seelie Queen’s neck.

  Her mouth hung open in shock. She grabbed for the knife, but it was too late. The blade exited between her shoulder blades, burying its tip into the back of her wooden chair and pinning her upright. Her hands groped uselessly at the air and a gurgling sound came from her ruined throat. Blood bubbled from her mouth, streaming down the front of her gossamer gown.

  Her attendees gasped. Several sprites darted forward, their tiny hands grabbing at the knife handle, trying to wrench it free. One of our soldiers kicked them away.

  “You are correct,” Daigh grinned, as the life drained from the Queen’s eyes. “The witch will not be taking over my throne. She will be taking yours.”

  He rose and, with the elegant strides so ubiquitous of the fae, approached her chair. Sprites and brownies leapt out of his way as he leaned over the table and yanked the knife from her chest. An arc of blood splattered across the table, drenching the food.

  The Queen slumped forward, her face smashing into the plate in front of her. Sticky fruit and pale green blood splattered across the tablecloth.

  Daigh wiped the blade of his knife with the edge of the tablecloth, and slid it back into his belt. “Send word across our realm,” he addressed the courts. “Tell all that the Seelie and Unseelie Courts are now united as one. There is to be no more fighting amongst ourselves. We are unified by a common goal – to reclaim our ancestral lands and rid them of the human scourge, once and for all.”

  The Court broke out into rapturous applause – some of it genuine, some of it tinged with fear. Seelie sprites leapt into the air, dancing around their dead Queen’s corpse, lifting her wildflower crown from her head and placing it atop Daigh’s thorny circlet. The boggarts and warriors of the Unseelie Court rapped their claws against their weapons and cheered.

  I cheered loudest of all. But not for the reason Dear Father believed – I had no interest in returning the fae to the human realm. I had my own plot involving the indomitable Maeve Moore, and the first part of it had just fallen perfectly into place.

  6

  MAEVE

  What the hell am I doing here?

  The question bounced around inside my head as the taxi bumped along a narrow road edged on both sides by towering bushes bursting with bright white flowers in bulbous clusters. The taxi driver chattered on about the bushes – he called them hydrangeas, which I knew I’d forget tomorrow because I hardly knew anything about plants – explaining how the flowers bloom green but soon burst into white before fading to green again and dropping their leaves all over the road like an end-of-summer snowfall. “They’re a devil of a thing to wash off your car,” he said.

  I nodded, staring out the window as we clattered past. In the warm sunlight that was so unlike the harsh heat of Arizona, the hydrangea bushes looked pretty alien to me, like everything in this place – fences made of neatly-clipped gorse tangled together into thorny lines, rolling hills that looked like something from the front of a chocolate box, and houses and walls made of beautiful shaped stones or Tudor wattle-and-daub.

  I’m in England. Why the hell am I in England? Nerves swirled in my stomach. When I brought the plane ticket and packed my clothes and books, I’d been high on Kelly’s enthusiasm and too distracted by my absence of grief for the Crawfords to really think about what I was doing. Now that I touched down in Heathrow and had several conversations with people who talked like Harry Potter characters and was heading out to my very own castle, the full weight of the decision pressed down on me.

  I’d really come to a foreign country to live in a castle with four strangers all by myself. If nothing, this little excursion proved to me that Kelly was right – I really hadn’t taken enough risks in my life, because this one was freaking me the hell out.

  Here we are, luv.” The driver turned down a wide driveway flanked by tall oak trees. I pressed my nose to the window to admire the carefully sculpted gardens and espaliered fruit trees spread along a crenulated garden wall. We passed under a stone gatehouse with a sign bearing that English Heritage logo along with some opening hours and a ticket booth. I gathered from the website that we have visitors to one wing of the castle, which helped pay for its upkeep. Thankfully, the castle wasn’t open on Mondays, so at least I when I met my tenants for the first time there was no risk we’d get poleaxed by a selfie stick.

  The driveway wound on and on through a forested area and then rolling green hills where tiny sheep munched on lush grass. I expected them to be fluffy like cumulus clouds, but they were all scraggly and skinny and covered with tufts of wool.

  The driver explained that they were Wiltshire sheep, and their wool fell off during the summer to help kept them cool. “The farmers love them because they’re self-shearing.” This taxi driver was such a font of knowledge, I wished I could keep him.

  We rose over the crest of a hill, and I got my first glimpse of Briarwood House. And what a house it is!

  We drove under another stone gatehouse, inside the outer stone wall. The central keep rose like a column from the top of the hill, flanked on two sides by battlements and turrets. I read on the website that it was an original Norman keep, with the outer walls and Tudor addition added later when the castle became a residence instead of a fortress. Arrow slits and tiny windows wound around the turrets, and crenulations circled the roof of the tower. Victorian mock-Tudor additions jutted out from the entrance, providing a glass con
servatory and a small annex and garage. I could see a solar panel array attached to one of the roofs.

  Wow.

  A castle. My castle.

  “Right, luv, that will be a hundred and eighty-four quid.” The driver pulled up in a small parking area around a dirty fountain. I fumbled in my wallet for the money, counting out the strange notes I’d extracted from a machine at the airport. Was a quid the same as a pound? Was a hundred and eighty-four pounds a lot? I was usually good at math, but I couldn’t get my head around the exchange rates. It didn’t help that my mind felt like cotton candy after twenty hours on the plane. I’d managed to get a little sleep, but another nightmare about the Ferris wheel woke me and I couldn’t keep my eyes shut after that.

  I slid out of the car, in awe of the way the huge stone walls loomed over me, pressing me down into the earth. Now I was outside the car, the vibrant colors and scents of the garden assailed me. How was it possible for the air to smell so sweet and green?

  Two huge wooden doors on ornate metal hinges greeted me. The driver helped me lift my bag from the trunk and carried it to the door for me. My stomach twisted as I lifted the ancient knocker from its cradle and allowed it to clatter back into place.

  Maybe no one will be home. Maybe I won’t have to deal with meeting four new people right now—

  The door swung open, and I nearly toppled back down the cobbles.

  Standing in the threshold was Mr. British – the guy from the county fair. The same guy who had grabbed me and pulled me back from the flames that consumed my parents.

  7

  MAEVE

  Hello Maeve,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. No way. No way could he be here. This is insane.

  But it was him all right, looking just as gorgeous as ever in dark jeans, a sleeveless grey hoodie, and his dark hair swept to one side, a few strands flopping over his huge eyes in this totally adorable way. The same tattoos curled up both his arms – in the grey-hued daylight I could see pictures amongst the knotwork – intricate black and grey images of gods and demons battling with short swords and round shields. Around his wrists were lines of what might have been text written in a strange code of long and short sticks. It looked familiar, but my jet-lagged brain couldn’t think where I’d seen it before.

  Mr. British laughed easily, running a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t worry, I get that you’re shocked. I’m a bit miffed at the situation, myself. Especially after what happened the first time we met. But trust me, there’s nothing nefarious going on. It’s just a weird coincidence. Please, come in. Welcome to Briarwood House.”

  I didn’t budge, but I did manage to push out some words. “You… you don’t seem surprised to see me?”

  Mr. British smiled. “Emily – she’s our lawyer – showed me a picture of you, and I realized you must be either the girl from the fair or her long-lost twin sister. I was going to tell you in my last email, but I was worried you might not come if you thought I was stalking you or something. My name’s Corbin, by the way. Corbin Harris. I’m one of the tenants. Please, let me take your rucksack. Did you pay the driver?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I gave the driver a wave as he handed over my bag. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, luv.” He tipped his hat. Taxi drivers in England were much more polite than back home. I hoped he could afford to buy himself something nice with his hundred-and-eighty-four pounds.

  I followed Corbin through the enormous doors, which led under a deep arch into a large internal courtyard. My sneakers slipped against uneven cobbles as we twisted our way through an assortment of outdoor tables and signs directing tourists to a gift shop. I stared up at the sheer stone walls surrounding us on all four sides. A covered walkway around the second story gave access to those rooms, and I could just make out the tops of two towers in the far corners.

  Whoa. I own this. My mother used to live here. It was too crazy to be real.

  Across the courtyard, Corbin opened a smaller wooden door with intricate swirling hinges on the wall of the inner Norman keep, and led me into a small antechamber screened with wooden walls where I removed my shoes and lined them up alongside several pairs of scuffed boots and sneakers.

  Corbin picked up my suitcase and I followed him into an enormous square entrance hall. A stone staircase swooped up from just in front of the door, flanked by a stunning carved balustrade. My socks scuffed across more uneven flagstones. Every single spare surface of wall was covered with gilded portraits, animal heads, or swords and shields. Corbin pointed up at the ceiling. I expected to see an ornate chandelier, but instead there was a large hole, revealing a glimpse at the painted ceiling of the walkway above.

  “See that?” Corbin grinned. “That’s an original feature of the Norman keep. If the enemy managed to breach this inner door, the defenders could pour boiling water or pitch down on them.”

  I shuddered. That was kind of grisly. “Don’t tell me this whole castle is riddled with Norman booby traps.”

  “Not too many. We don’t exactly get marauding Vikings attacking these days,” he said. “Unless you count Arthur.”

  “Who?”

  Corbin grinned. “You’ll understand when you meet him in a second. The castle has been a defensive structure much longer than it’s been a residence, so I like that these feature help us to remember its history—” his face broke into this sheepish smile that made my heart skip a beat. “Sorry if I’m boring you. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’m really interested in the history of Briarwood House. I help with the tours, which is how we keep the place running without selling ourselves on the streets.”

  “And you’re also a medical miracle worker.” I held out my arm so Corbin could see how smooth the skin was. “My sister said you knew just what to do, and I don’t have any burns or scars.”

  “Not a doctor, but I’m good at looking after people.”

  That didn’t seem like a good enough answer, but I decided to leave it for now. “Your parents knew my mother,” I said.

  Corbin nodded. “You must have so many questions, and I promise to answer them all for you. But you’ve got to get inside the door first! Come on, the others are chuffed to meet you.”

  He led me through an arched doorway at the side of the entrance hall, down a short passage of more screens lit with glowing wrought-iron sconces. We emerged into an enormous room. Ceiling beams crisscrossed above my head, hiding a roof gable that was so high I couldn’t even see it. The walls were covered with a lime wash that had faded in places, revealing patches of bare stone beneath. Tapestries depicting battles and naked dancing sprites hung from every corner, and more swords hung from the walls and beams, and were even slotted through the wrought-iron chandeliers.

  A fireplace that was taller than I was stood at one end, with overstuffed couches and beanbag chairs arranged around it. Above the fireplace was an impressive TV screen, with several gaming consoles and controllers strewn across the mat in a tangle of cords.

  My eyes were so busy drinking in the splendor of the room that I didn’t even notice the three figures lounging on the couches and talking in low voices until Corbin yelled out, “Look who’s here!”

  Three faces whipped around, and my eyes darted between them, not sure where to look first. There was so much to take in.

  First of all, like Corbin, they were all fucking gorgeous. I’m talking male model, bodybuilding champion, romance novel cover levels of hotness, and that was with their clothes on.

  One hot tenant in my castle was good luck, but four of them? My stomach fluttered. It was like some crazy hedonistic fairy tale. What the hell had I got myself into?

  For another thing, they were all grinning at me with beautiful, genuine smiles. They didn’t look as though they thought I was some naive girl from the sticks who they could corrupt. Instead, my first impression was of friendliness and… perhaps something more. Or maybe that was just my own heart fluttering in my
chest.

  Empathy and kindness lurked in their eyes, and I got the sense that they knew what had happened to me back in the States. The press had been all over it, so anyone who searched my name would’ve been able to stream mobile phone footage of the accident. Somehow, just occupying the same space as them made my breath come a little easier.

  A weight I didn’t even realize I’d been holding slipped from my shoulders, and the tiniest amount of pressure was released from my chest. I took a step toward them, and for the first time since the fair and all the tragedy that followed, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I felt… something.

  Maybe this whole living in a castle with four hot strangers thing would be exactly what I needed.

  “Hi,” I gave one of those awkward half-shrug, half-wave things when you meet new people and don’t know if you should shake their hand or if that makes them think you’re an accountant. “I’m Maeve.”

  “Flynn O'Hagan, at your service,” the first guy said with a thick Irish accent as he grabbed my hand, swept into a deep bow, and placed his full lips right against my knuckles. Thick red curls fell over his eyes as he looked up at me. “Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Maeve Moore.”

  Where his lips pressed against my skin, fire whizzed straight down my arm and flared right in my core. I’d never have a guy greet me quite like that before, especially one who looked like Flynn. Sunlight streaming through the high gothic windows caught Flynn’s vibrant red hair, making it glow like a golden halo around his head. But unlike an angel, the glint in his blue eyes was pure devil.

  And there was something else about those mischievous eyes, those cheekbones like razors. They felt familiar to me, as though I’d seen them somewhere before. On a movie poster perhaps. Flynn was hot enough to be an actor. But somehow I didn’t think that was it.